I LOVED Ziad Rahbani, the man and the artist, firstly because he was the eldest son of the iconic Lebanese singer Fairuz, and secondly because he embodied the cultural and intellectual soul of the Rahbani family, who often chose to keep their personal lives out of the spotlight. From this perspective, I came to understand the depth of Ziad’s intelligent and creative personality.
On Saturday, July 26, we lost an unmatched artist, composer, playwright, and writer. Ziad’s art and politically charged, thought-provoking plays brought him closer to the minds and hearts of his fans not only in Lebanon but throughout the Arab world. Ziad was deeply melancholic, sharply sarcastic, and his work reflected an even greater depth. His unapologetic leftist views, which he never attempted to conceal, alienated many, but Ziad was never overly concerned with the opinions of his critics. He was born on the first day of 1956, the same year I first arrived in Lebanon.
He passed away yesterday at the age of 69, after a long struggle with illness. His personal and social life was marked by a series of disagreements, sometimes escalating into conflicts with those closest to him. He was socially withdrawn, perhaps a result of the relentless pressures of creativity, which never allowed him even a moment of rest. Ziad carried a deep unhappiness born of personal suffering, which may have fueled his creative energy that will live on for decades, if not forever. Ziad was always a controversial figure, both in his personal life and through his melodies, plays, statements, and poems. He could have become a poet, but the artistic environment at home, with the towering presence of his father, uncle, and mother, steered him away from poetry and channeled his talents toward music and theater.
Ziad’s first composition, “Lauza My Ever Love,” was written in 1971 when he was just 15 years old. At 17, he composed his first song, “Saalouni el-Nas” (People asked me), for his mother, Fairuz. The lyrics were written by his uncle, Mansour Rahbani, while his father, Assi, was in the hospital. Ziad’s theatrical debut came with “The Station,” followed by “Miss Al-Raym,” for which he composed the opening music, leaving audiences astonished. His artistic journey continued with works that took on a deeply realistic and political tone that touched on the daily lives of the people, in stark contrast to the more idealistic style of traditional Rahbani plays. Ziad was a child of the civil war, a war that shattered both spirits and bodies. It only deepened his commitment to socialist-communist ideals, pushing him toward a more radical stance. Among Ziad’s most famous songs are “Ana Mesh Kafir” (I’m not an infidel), “Isma Ya Reda” (Listen, Reda), and “Ala Hadeer El Bosta” (On the roar of the bus), in which he says:
I am promised by your eyes,
For which I have traveled distances and climbed mountains.
Your eyes are black,
And you have no idea how black eyes affect me.
With the roaring sound of the bus
That carried us from Himalaya to Tannourine,
I remembered you, Aliya,
And I remembered your eyes, how beautiful they were.
One of the passengers was eating lettuce,
Another was eating figs.
A man sat with his wife,
But she was ugly.
If he had been you,
He would have left her.
You and I rode the bus,
And we didn’t pay for tickets.
Among his sayings, which will live long in the memory are - “I am torn between starting the wedding and not starting it... for fear that it will end.” “In our world, mother, there is no ugly dress, as long as every dress has someone who loves to wear it.” “If speech were like bread that could be bought, no one would be able to speak... unless they bought speech...!” “How can I make you understand, O bird of our cage, that I don’t like to own cages or birds? I’m not like my family.” And perhaps he finally said, “If only they knew that the final moment of life could come suddenly while we’re at odds!” Maybe that’s exactly what happened to Ziad... after all the loved ones around him had drifted away, grown old, or simply ceased to matter to him, as he may have ceased to matter to them.
